


A Burglar's Seven Tears

by duesternis



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epic Poetry, Fix-It, M/M, Magic Fix-It, Poetry, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: The Burglar speaks no word, for there is nothing left to say when the Fallen King is put to rest.-------But a land so filled with magic cannot deny fate its course.





	A Burglar's Seven Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CuraAtlanticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuraAtlanticus/gifts).



> I haven't written an epic poem before.

The wind moans a lament  
Before they know the King did fall  
And that the Burglar strokes,  
With shaking hands,  
The bloodied brow he holds so dear.

A tear falls, on that bloodied brow,  
And shines as cold as crystal.  
Another and another falls,  
Until he wears a crown of tears.  
And a single tear the King does cry.

The tear crown does not  
Budge for all the world and the  
Burglar speaks no word, for there  
Is nothing left to say when the  
Fallen King is put to rest.

The Burglar leaves the tomb  
Behind, heart heavier than all the  
Gold they offered him, heart heavier  
Than the Fallen King with a crystal crown  
Of Seven tears.

A Raven follows him, lifts from the  
Mountain a winged shadow,  
With Seven Stars upon his head,  
An open tomb beneath his claws,  
Showing naught but naked stone.

By the river and the Lake it flies,  
Through the wood it follows him,  
In the meadow it so stays and even  
Under stone and ground it never ventures  
From his side, as steadfast as the stars.

And as the harsh world peters out to  
Softer hills and clearer air the Raven  
Caws once, the Burglar lifts his  
Heavy head and sees the shadow  
With an aching heart.

Home he comes to dust and empty  
Halls, a quiet settles in  
Like Tar upon his weary bones.  
There are no words  
To speak and so he mutes himself.

Bleak are the colours of Mourning  
In a country full with flowers.  
Stark is the Silence of one  
Where many join in laughter.  
And the Raven sits and watches.

In winter it sits on windowsills  
And knocks, until the Burglar  
Lets it warm its feathers at  
The hearth, reminded of ravendark  
Hair upon a regal brow.

In spring the Raven rules the garden,  
A kingdom in his right, and he sole heir.  
The Burglar neither sings nor speaks  
As soil he parts and tenderly puts  
Seeds to rest and grow.

Moonflowers and roses and forget-me-not.  
A willow-sapling by the well.  
Orchids and harebells and violets.  
He tends the oak and cries into his  
Dirty hands, lets sunlight dry his tears.

Summer blooms, warm and moist,  
And visitors stop coming by his house.  
There is no sense to visit there  
Where no one speaks and no one laughs,  
Where pride and grief do live.

The Raven stays and caws his song  
And eats out of the Burglar’s hand  
And preens beneath his gaze.  
The Seven Stars upon his head shine  
Brighter every day.

Autumn spreads a sheet of red,  
The Raven caws a newfound song  
Right at the Burglar’s door and  
Flies away into the rising stars,  
Returning with the sun.

The Burglar does not sleep that night,  
Instead he writes a song that mourns  
The passing of the King who was,  
First and foremost to his heart,  
The Oaken Shield and Elven Blade.

He almost smiles when morning sun  
Brings back his shadow-friend and,  
Celebrates the gentle caw with one warm  
Dwarven bread, weaved as a  
Well-known braid.

A year goes by, much like the first,  
And not a single night the Raven  
Flies, but two.  
One in autumn, leaves turned red  
And one in winter, garden white and bare.

A year goes by, much like the last,  
And thrice the Raven leaves a  
Night. The Burglar writes  
His songs in silent solitude,  
And thrice they eat the bread.

A year goes by, much like the last,  
And four nights do they spend  
Apart, from dusk to dawn.  
One in every season coming by  
And still the Burglar does not speak.

A year goes by, much like the last,  
With now five lonely nights.  
The Burglar spends them wistfully  
With just his pipe and walks  
Out through his land.

A year goes by, much like the last,  
And six times does the Raven fly.  
The Seven Stars upon his head  
Seem duller day by day and  
The Burglar fears a loss once more.

A year goes by, much like the last,  
The Raven flies for seven nights  
And seven times the Burglar cries,  
For the Raven is slower day  
by day and weaker night by night.

But home he comes and bread  
They break and almost the  
Burglar smiles again,  
Stroking the fading Silver  
Stars upon the Raven’s head.

Together they spend the days  
Of cold there at the hearth,  
And first in Seven Years the  
Silence weighs not more than  
Mithrilchain upon the Burglar’s chest.

A morning of Remembrance dawns  
And oaken leaves, brittle and brown,  
Save frozen ground from heavy  
Snow, branches bowed much like the  
Burglar’s head and Ravensong an echo in the fields.

At night the Burglar reads the songs  
he wrote of King and Dragonfire.  
Of tales both small and tall, of Magic and  
The rest, and Sapphire eyes and Silver Crowns.  
The Raven sits still by his side and does not caw.

The sun does not the Burglar rouse,  
His heart is heavy, his limbs are sore,  
As every Mourning morning, and a  
Quiet greets him in the halls,  
Croons to him of loneliness and empty rooms.

Fear scorches scars he thought as  
Whole, maybe, scabbed at the least,  
But fresh they hurt as dropped  
He sees the Raven, right by the  
Embered hearth.

The Burglar picks the Raven up  
From on the faded rug and strokes  
The lovely head. Where once the  
Seven Silver Stars shone bright, now  
Only pitch black feathers sit.

The Burglar sighs and rocks  
The bird and cries, once more,  
His Seven Tears upon a well-  
Beloved brow, shaking whole  
Like leaves in bitter wind.

When soft and faint and suddenly  
The weight he cradles tenderly  
Is remade, new and old at once,  
And where feathers were there is now hair,  
And the Burglar breathes sound

That is neither laugh nor sob  
And both at once. For Magic  
Works peculiar ways and Seven  
Tears and one make Seven Years  
And add a single day for them.

No black remains upon his head and gaunt  
Now is his face, but breath he draws.  
His eyes hold fire, warm and fierce,  
For flowers, green and whole and small.  
The King under the Mountain will love his Gold no more.

There is no Fanfare for a  
Promise made with broken voice,  
Unused for too long to sing and  
Unused to the love it speaks.  
A Promise it is nonetheless: He will love his Gold no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me your thoughts and maybe visit my poetry blog at http://words-hold-worlds.tumblr.com/ if you enjoyed this.


End file.
